Page 58 of A Legacy of Lies

“You’re lucky I’m the one seeing to this,” Edgar said. “If Cook had got to you first, she’d have scolded you into next week.”

Nathaniel managed a small sound of amusement. “You’ve done this before.”

Edgar dabbed gently at the cut. “More than once. Your uncle had a temper. And friends who liked to test it.”

He raised a brow. “Charles brawled?”

Edgar’s expression didn’t change, but his tone thinned. “He drank. Which, for him, amounted to the same thing.”

Nathaniel stilled. “Was he cruel?”

“To others?” Edgar gave a measured pause. “No. Unless you count his ledgers or the hounds when they disobeyed. But he could be careless. Especially with those beneath him.”

“Including you?”

The older man gave a short laugh. “No, Your Grace. He never raised a hand to me. But I learned early to keep clear when he reached for the bottle.”

Nathaniel braced one arm against the basin as Edgar cleaned the cut on his cheek. The sting was nothing compared to the throb in his ribs or the quiet echo of Clara’s voice in his mind.

“You’re lucky he wasn’t sober,” Edgar muttered, dabbing gently.

“Then you know about Willie Moore Whitmore?” Nathaniel asked quietly. “Was he ever here? Did you see them together?”

Edgar paused, rinsing the cloth. “There was a man who came sometimes. Not often. Unshaven. Quick eyes. Kept his head down. When Charles had dealings with him, they never met in the main rooms.”

“So he was here.”

A pause and a reluctant nod. “Once they argued. Out by the stables. Your uncle was shouting about trust and payment and the price of silence.”

“And this man, Willie, what did he say?”

“That Charles was no better. That he’d made his choices and would pay for them sooner or later.” Edgar wrung out the cloth. “They both were drunk. I think if I hadn’t stepped in, one of them would’ve brained the other with a bridle hook.”

Nathaniel leaned back, brows furrowed. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Edgar straightened, folding the cloth. “You hadn’t asked. And I didn’t think it my place.”

“It’s your place now.”

A quiet understanding passed between them. Edgar inclined his head. “Then I’ll say it plain. Whatever business your uncle had with that man, it wasn’t honest. And if he’s come back now, it isn’t for sentiment.” Edgar took a breath. “You’ve a nose for trouble, Your Grace.”

“I don’t regret it.” Nathaniel’s voice came rough.

Edgar studied him. “No, I daresay you don’t.” He reached for a small tin of salve, fingers moving with practiced ease. “Your uncle was the same. Never backed away from a fight when the honor of a lady was in question. Though you’ve more restraint than he ever did.”

Nathaniel gave a short, dry laugh.

“I once helped him after a duel outside Brighton,” Edgar added. “Four bruised ribs and a split lip. Lady Fetherstone’s husband, I believe. He never told Her Grace.”

“Did she know?”

“Oh, of course. But she let him pretend she didn’t.”

Nathaniel’s smile faded. “Do you think she’ll let me pretend?”

Edgar didn’t answer at once. He finished bandaging the cut, tied it off neatly, and stepped back to study his work. “Her Grace will see what she chooses. But the girl—” He hesitated.

“Clara,” Nathaniel supplied.